Fine, fine — the wine is great. The weather is wonderful. It’s close to the ocean, mountains, and San Luis Obispo. Paso Robles is perfect in every way. Whatever, Lisa. Let’s get this straight — the only criteria that matters is the one wrapped in a tortilla. If this place doesn’t have decent Mexican food, I’m leaving. Don’t you remember looking for tacos in Vermont?

How about this place, Papi’s? It’s got a good, ridiculous name, just like Mr. Taco in San Diego. That’s probably a good sign, I’ll give you that. I’m going to get the tacos — carnitas, carne asada, chicken. Next time I’ll get the lengua. Let’s get the chips and salsa too. I like the counter service and salsa bar. So far, so good.

Wait, what’s this? My tacos are topped with … nothing. Nothing at all! This is amazing — no pile of iceberg, no shredded cheese substitute. This is perfect — just add-your-own chopped onion and cilantro from the salsa bar. I’m going to go with the spicy green salsa too.

Oh … my … I’m in love too. Let’s move here! Screw the rest of the trip, let’s just live here and drink wine and eat these tacos. I don’t want to ever leave.

What, jobs? Nooooooo! I don’t want one of those. Can’t we just live here, you know, for free? Maybe they could take us on as the town’s honorary food bloggers or something. We could talk to Papi and see if he’s got room for us to sleep in the back. Please?

Tacos in Paso Robles. This place has everything.

Read Our Book:

Read about Paul fighting off a charging bear with a Fat Tire beer can (kinda made up). And this: Lisa meeting a talking piece of poo in the middle of the desert (maybe that was dehydration). And we realize that the meaning of life is wrapped up in a motel waffle (this is probably true).